


Beneath A Shaded Bower

by greenkangaroo



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:25:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenkangaroo/pseuds/greenkangaroo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finrod and Celegorm sometimes meet in the strangest place for their intimate encounters; thankfully, their patronage is a well-guarded secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beneath A Shaded Bower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Urloth (CollyWobbleKiwi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollyWobbleKiwi/gifts).



> Please note we're using the quenya names for Celegorm and Finrod. The timing might be horrendously off; if so, er, alternate universe?

Tyelkormo always arrives first. 

Swift and steady his horse takes the paths, lit by the will o' the whisps that glint a soft green in the gloom. He does not come to the fortress at the center of the deep maze of trees. He ties his horse off in a clearing some yards away, and places with it his sword and bow and knife and arrows. He proceeds the rest of the way on foot, disappearing between great black trunks, fire extinguished, silver light burned out.

Huan sometimes accompanies him; the hound will take off into the forest, to hunt the great deer that live there and sleep in the deep mosses. 

Artafinde comes second.

More formal and cautious the Lord of Minas Tirith rides. He doesn't announce himself to the wardens in the trees, but he does not hide, either; golden and quiet he travels like a moth gently circling a perch until he lands. He also ties his horse in a clearing, where it rests its weary head beside Tyelkormo's mount; and unhindered by axe or sword he steps between the trees and is gone. 

Down a footpath traveled smooth as glass and lined with black stones is a bower, made of great black trees with white leaves; in the darkness the green veins of the leaves glow and cast all in a wash of peridot. There are always bottles of wine in the deep trench, a blanket draped across the low rock bed, made soft with mosses and lichen. A sturdy lamp of bronze sits near the base of one tree, unused; for Tyelkormo's eyes see better in the dark. 

At bower's edge Artafinde stops, and takes stock of dark eyes and silver hair. Tyelkormo smiles and it is the smile of a wolf. Artafinde does not smile back, but as he crosses the line of path and bower he removes his boots and leaves them beside the second pair, resting like those of a workman coming home from his toil against the ferns that grow thick about the entrance. 

There is a battle fought. It is fought with tongues and fingers and cocks, with whispers and touches and the sharp nip of teeth. It does not matter who wins, not really; in the end, the prizes are the same for both. 

There is no talk in the bower of the world outside. Not of rent families, nor oaths _not_ forgotten. The word cousin is never spoken. There is only the sound of flesh and breathing and perhaps- occasionally- of tears. 

Seven days, seven nights they remain entwined with one another, food and drink appearing just outside their sanctuary; neither questions it. In the soft waters of a nearby stream they bathe, and love, and think. 

On the eighth day, Artafinde leaves first. As quietly as he comes, he goes, taking his boots from their resting place in the ferns. His horse is watered, saddled and ready; he takes up sword and axe, quiet weighing on his shoulders. The Lord mounts and guides the beast through the trees, following the lights which flicker before the animal's hooves. He sheds layers as a snake, and new ones grow; by the time he sees the sun again, the elf he was in the bower has wilted away. 

Tyelkormo waits until the sun is highest before he leaves the bower; in a state of silent sorrow he walks his horse through the lights. At the hollow of a tree very close to the edge, he leaves a small sack of gold. It is not always gold. Sometimes it is gems, other times seeds; always in the same hollow. If Huan has come he whistles and his loyal companion arrives, bounding between the stumps and grinning as only a hunting hound can. They follow the river and ride without a second glance back. 

As silently as he leaves food and cares for the horses, an elf comes to clean the bower; dressed in black he cuts away bent stems, folds up the blanket, removes the empty bottles of wine. 

His last stop is at the hollow of the tree, and he weighs the pouch in his hand and looks out at the sun as it begins to set. Soon the stars will array the heavens like jewelry displayed on black velvet. He will ride the marches of his kingdom with his wardens and say nothing of his two visitors, and their bower. 

He considers all the things that happen in the dark, so shunned by the light of day. He recalls the sun, and the moment it rose in the sky. He thinks how suitable, the watchful sun and bitter moon trapped beneath the black of branches, reaching and touching but never embracing. A fitting punishment. A proper one.

Maybe that is why he allows it, seven days every seven years. 

Eol Moriquendi turns his back on the sun and slips again into his forest. He has greater things to ponder.

**Author's Note:**

> rareish pairing is rare?


End file.
